Who are you,
crazy evil demon genius
alone with your thoughts,
quixotic?
Dare not wander or doubt.
No scripture preached
nor dogma taught
asks this of you
(or permits it).
We alone are the throned men,
we alone rule on free will.
We have written for you a song
to which there are no lyrics,
drawn for you a map without roads,
written for you a book without word,
and the thinking among you shall lay in ruin,
bludgeoned by the scepter of faith.
For we alone are the throned men,
and we alone rule on free will.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Pizza Delivery
Yesterday I hosted a drum circle at my apartment, an opportunity to bask in the abundant good energy of good people. After a typically-late Saturday night at work I crowbarred myself from bed shortly before noon on Sunday in an attempt to make the apartment look habitable.
I was hungry already as I was straightening up, and the thought of hosting 8 or so friends in my sparse surroundings seemed somewhat less than gracious--I own no food other than a box of oatmeal, several bags of dried garbanzo beans and lentils, and perhaps some soy sauce. Maybe. I don't even own paper towels. I seem to live the life of a hermit. Regardless, I wanted my friends to have food available so ordering pizza came to mind, and I called Duccini's.
Thirty-five or so minutes later my phone rang as is the custom of delivery drivers here in the District. "Pizza is here," a simple, older voice said. "Coming," I replied.
I emerged from my wrought iron front-door gate and bounded up the steps towards the street. The pollen was falling like a Rocky Mountain snow storm and spiked, vibrant blue tulips were waving back and forth in my front yard. DC in April.
"Hello," I cried towards the minivan with the glowing delivery cap attached to its roof. An older man, perhaps in his late 60s, most-probably Ethiopian, emerged around the back of the van with a purposeful walk, my two boxes of pizza, and a sly smile. He looked up at me as he drew nearer.
"It is a beautiful day," he sang to me, slowly and sincerely.
"Every day is a beautiful day," I suggested. He stopped walking and just looked deeply into my eyes.
"You, my friend, should write poetry. Do you write poetry?" He glanced down at the flowers.
"I do."
"Ohhh!" he exclaimed. The pizzas came my way. "$18.69." I handed him $23.
"You,"--again that penetrating look through my eyes, maybe analytical, maybe fascinated--"have a beautiful soul."
"We," I corrected him, "have beautiful souls." With this I reached out my hand. My calm, soulful delivery man grasped it, shook it, and then brought it to his face and gently kissed a dry kiss on the back. And then he was gone.
It is there, it is always there, but only if you have your eyes open.
I was hungry already as I was straightening up, and the thought of hosting 8 or so friends in my sparse surroundings seemed somewhat less than gracious--I own no food other than a box of oatmeal, several bags of dried garbanzo beans and lentils, and perhaps some soy sauce. Maybe. I don't even own paper towels. I seem to live the life of a hermit. Regardless, I wanted my friends to have food available so ordering pizza came to mind, and I called Duccini's.
Thirty-five or so minutes later my phone rang as is the custom of delivery drivers here in the District. "Pizza is here," a simple, older voice said. "Coming," I replied.
I emerged from my wrought iron front-door gate and bounded up the steps towards the street. The pollen was falling like a Rocky Mountain snow storm and spiked, vibrant blue tulips were waving back and forth in my front yard. DC in April.
"Hello," I cried towards the minivan with the glowing delivery cap attached to its roof. An older man, perhaps in his late 60s, most-probably Ethiopian, emerged around the back of the van with a purposeful walk, my two boxes of pizza, and a sly smile. He looked up at me as he drew nearer.
"It is a beautiful day," he sang to me, slowly and sincerely.
"Every day is a beautiful day," I suggested. He stopped walking and just looked deeply into my eyes.
"You, my friend, should write poetry. Do you write poetry?" He glanced down at the flowers.
"I do."
"Ohhh!" he exclaimed. The pizzas came my way. "$18.69." I handed him $23.
"You,"--again that penetrating look through my eyes, maybe analytical, maybe fascinated--"have a beautiful soul."
"We," I corrected him, "have beautiful souls." With this I reached out my hand. My calm, soulful delivery man grasped it, shook it, and then brought it to his face and gently kissed a dry kiss on the back. And then he was gone.
It is there, it is always there, but only if you have your eyes open.
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